Is it me, or has Oscar dressing become a little too safe? Time was when Cher could be relied upon to rock up in a thong catsuit with appliqué women's area (as Alan Partridge once put it), or Björk would obligingly sport a swan. Now it's all stylist this and stylist that and everybody's too concerned with bagging the next romcom to spread either their wings, or that of some feathered friend.

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This may make for pretty pictures, but it strips the players of any uniqueness. One of my favourite Oscar ensembles - all of Tilda Swinton's apart - was when Sharon Stone topped off a Vera Wang evening skirt with her husband's Gap shirt.

Ms Stone, who has also been known to sport a T-shirt to the ceremony, has got event dressing down to a (forgive me) tee. One should look like a coruscating version of oneself, not as if one has morphed into a supersize crinoline lady lavatory roll concealer (remember Gwyneth P's ill-fitting, Andrex pink, Ralph Lauren monstrosity when accepting her best sobbing award?).

It is far more elegant - and economical - to take something one already loves, Shazzer-style, and ritz things up with some breaking accessories. This is where
The Berkeley Hotel
's fantabulous new Fashion Trunk comes into its own.

The trunk will be available free for guests staying in one of the hotel's modish Berkeley suites, as the perfect addition to one's black-tie rig out. However, should one decide to invest or - shall we say - should one "accidentally" flounce off with a bibelot in the manner of a purloined bathrobe - this treasure trove is also available for sale.

Naturally, I resolved to be the first to sample the service on your collective behalf. Accordingly, I thrust myself upon one of the Berkeley suites with my partners-in-crime: Fashion Fitz and, by way of a token male Floppy Fringe Mullet Boy.

They know how to do things at The Berk. On our arrival, fizz was a-chilling, and Fred Astaire a-warbling.

And then, through a Diptique haze, we spotted it: the most beauteous item of luggage in the known world. I had hoped it would be borne in by oiled minions; but no, there it sat, like some fashion monolith.

Endeavouring not to fall upon it too indecorously, Fitz and I investigated. She looked mighty fine in everything, damn her, from a glorious Dior bib necklace (£600) to a beaded, mirrored Walid bolero (£650).

I was more tunnel-visioned, donning a sumptuous silver fox stole (£1,200) and a pair of vast and impossibly divine Chanel pearl earrings (£750: though I only mention them in an entirely academic spirit since, in my head, they are already mine). Numbing my lobes with champagne I muttered a mantra: "They hurt, but in a good way. It's fashion pain."

FFMB cunningly synchronised his arrival with that of John from the hotel's famous Blue Bar, who deployed psychic mixologist skills to create fashion-forward cocktails. Before long, we were sporting the entire trunk. I teamed My Earrings with what we termed "the sexy flapper demi-frockette", aka Walid's tulle and vintage apron dress (£400): all Old Hollywood chic from the front, yet winningly sans rear.

Should one not be able to stump up for The Berkeley, there are of course plenty of other sources of finery.
Chelsea Green's Felt
and Linda Bee of
Gray's Antiques Market
are my favourite vintage purveyors, be it rocks, bags or stoles.
Vivien Sheriff
once concocted for me the most exquisite bespoke cocktail hat when I wanted to jazz up a - whisper it - 20-year-old dress, and a bobby bargain it was too. Heels-wise, Kurt Geiger and Dorothy Perkins proffer some fetchingly Louboutin-like numbers, while shrugs and evening purses can be had from Monsoon, Coast and Biba at House of Fraser.

Still, ye gods, The Berk. Back in Trunk Land, FFMB had been successfully turned trannyward, and we gels had gone past the squawking hysterically stage and were mute and exhausted, clutching the swag on which we had set our hearts. As in the Oscar ceremony's aftermath, the return to normality meant the return of borrowed baubles, and the poignant memory of what could only be a fashionable one-night stand. Like Gwyneth, we wept.